Drifting
by How Beautifully Blue the Sky
Summary: Neville is struggling to find a way forward after the war, living alone in London, depressed and apathetic. He wants to make Luna happy, but to him their friendship is invariably platonic. He is hopeful, but he wallows. Oneshot, several years post-DH.


Neville knew everyone considered him and Luna a perfect couple. Some of his friends might even have thought they were already together, and certainly others thought it was inevitable.

That was partly why the prospect of identifying and unpacking his relationship with her terrified him.

Admittedly, romance wasn't a wildly inaccurate conclusion. He and Luna wrote frequently, long letters once or twice a week, and Neville visited her house often. He was fascinated by the milk thistles and dirigible plums in her vegetable patch, and the aqueous blueweed in her river garden, and liked to watch her work with them. He liked the company, too, and he knew Luna's father appreciated the conversation and the chance to make tea.

They were certainly fast friends. He loved Luna for her eccentricities, for her subtle humor, her earnestness. He loved her relationship with her father. He loved that she didn't dive into a hardnosed, officebound career in the years after the war, content instead to live with her father, continue publishing the Quibbler, and tinker in their workroom.

_It's not forever_, she'd written to him. _The Quibbler is Dad's, not mine. But he's still really fragile – I can't leave him. And I don't want to. I love my home. I'm not sure what I'd rather be doing, so why leave until I figure it out? Besides, Dad and I are so close to determining the active ingredients in our Aural Rehydration tea – you remember, Dad whipped it up one night while sleepwalking, and we've been isolating ingredients ever since. He thinks there'll be a real market once we figure it out!_

He was closest to Luna, of their school friends. He saw Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny every few months, but they were so tightly knit, so obviously, deliriously happy, that it was hard to break in. Especially when he was so confused.

Luna understood. She understood the listlessness, the aimlessness, his struggle to find a way forward. He didn't have his NEWTs – wasn't even sure he wanted to go back and try to earn them, like some of his friends had. Right now, he lived in a small London flat, subsisting on speaking fees, reading every Herbology book he could get his hands on, trying to find some semblance of purpose.

She was drifting just like he was, but she seemed content and placid, not confused at all. She was healing, and she was helping him to heal.

He wanted to love her as more than a sister. He tried. But he couldn't. And he couldn't lie to her.

He thought they'd gone on a date, but he wasn't sure. He didn't have much romantic experience to speak of, and neither did she. It wasn't like they'd gone to Madam Puddifoot's like his classmates at school, awkwardly reaching for each other's hands and trying to make a proper amount of eye contact over the spindly tables. But still – they'd been together, alone, laughing in each other's company, and then when Cho saw them…

He had asked Luna if she wanted to come to London to see a speaker – a milk thistle expert was speaking in Flourish and Blotts to celebrate the release of her new book and Neville thought Luna might be interested.

He had Apparated to her house to meet her, and then they had Disapparated together – a step which, as Neville looked back, was perhaps not strictly necessary if he had wanted to encourage a platonic relationship. _Only_, he thought to himself, justifications rising easily in his mind, _I'm not sure I knew then whether I _did_ want a platonic relationship. _

The speaker had been marginal at best, reading a passage from her book on Muggle plants with magical properties so dry Neville found his eyelids drooping. After, they'd left the shop and walked into the filtered sunlight of Diagon Alley.

"Shall we go for an ice cream?" Neville had suggested. Luna had beamed, and they'd walked to the newly rebuilt Fortescue and Sons, where she'd ordered raspberry black sesame – "We shave gurdyroots on top of ice cream at home and it's quite similar!" – and he'd stuck to plain chocolate.

Neville had watched Luna eat the last spoonful, sunlight giving her backlit hair a halo, and had felt content for the first time in months. The affirmations he always tried to repeat in his head, about _living in the moment_ and _not focusing on the future_, the affirmations which usually seemed impossible if not downright insulting, were suddenly easy. He was happy here, eating ice cream with Luna.

"Can I see your flat, Neville?"

Immediately, anxiety struck again. He thought of his place, dark, disheveled, dishes in the sink – he'd never mastered his cleaning spells and was too listless these days to teach himself again. Clothes in forlorn heaps near the bed, as he'd never gotten around to acquiring a dresser.

Shame flooded him. He fumbled for an excuse. "Er, I'm not sure – I'd actually rather – don't you think your father will want to see you for dinner?" he finished lamely, knowing it was only mid-afternoon.

If Luna was hurt by his awkward brush-off, she didn't show it. "No problem, then," she'd said kindly. "Shall we go?"

As Neville had floundered, looking for some way to salvage his rejection, Luna looked past him. "Oh, hello, Cho!" she said brightly. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey Luna! Hi, Neville," Cho had said from behind him. She'd looked healthy, chipper and friendly. _Another DA member who's figured everything out_, Neville had thought wearily.

As Cho explained she lived nearby and was meeting a friend for lunch, her eyes had kept darting back and forth between Neville and Luna. Too late, Neville had realized he and Luna were sitting side by side, rather than more conventionally across from each other, that his hand, hidden from view beneath the table, could plausibly be on Luna's knee; they probably looked like a couple.

"How are you two doing? Do you live nearby, too?" Cho had asked, confirming his anxieties.

"Neville does," Luna had answered, implacable. "I'm living with my dad, out of the city."

Neville thought miserably he saw surprise flit across Cho's face, but he didn't trust himself to positively identify it.

They'd continued exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, before Cho left with a "It's _really_ good to see you two together – you should come over sometime soon!"

Later, in his flat, Neville wallowed. He loved spending time with Luna, but not romantically.

He imagined kissing her, one hand in her flowing hair, one hand on her back, and felt nothing. He imagined holding her hand, walking down the sidewalk, and felt fear and self-consciousness about what people walking by might think. He imagined joining wands with her in a ceremony while their families looked on, under a canopy, and felt _uncomfortable_. He loved Luna. But he couldn't be with her.

His only solace was Luna's straightforwardness. If she wanted to be with him, she would tell him so. If she didn't, that meant – he figured – that she wasn't interested.

Two days later, he was lying in bed, starving, considering what he had in his pantry to make for a meal, when the owl rapped on his window with its beak. A letter from Luna. Despite himself, his heart soared – her words were typically the highlight of his day. He stood in the window to read:

_Dear Neville,_

_Thank you again for taking me to Diagon Alley last weekend. I had a really wonderful time! Dad mentioned he was thinking of buying that witch's book, and was grateful when I told him we thought she was a bit underwhelming. He also mentioned you should come round for dinner sometime this week – the blueweed is ready to be picked, and he has an excellent cold salad he thinks you'll really enjoy!_

_I'd also like to see you again this week. I'm thinking of making another set of bookshelves and could really use your help. It's quite tricky as you know because our walls are rounded – Dad says he's always used a Curving Spell in the past, but it's certainly easier with one person holding the wood and the other doing the magic. _

Neville smiled to himself. He'd helped Luna with her home improvement projects before, with mixed results. He was, as a rule, fairly hapless both with construction spells and the non-magical components of construction, and Luna's ideas sometimes ran beyond what they could achieve. Undoubtedly, he figured, the books she and her father planned to place on the shelves were secondary to another wooden surface for her to decorate. He'd have to ask her what large-scale mural or complicated design ruminating in her mind had prompted this project.

Luna continued chattily, giving him updates on her garden and the river, reflecting on a previous summer evening they'd spent by its banks. Then –

Neville frowned, his eyes shutting momentarily. _No, Luna, no. _He felt prickles of shame as he continued:

_Neville, I've been thinking of something for a while and I wanted to tell you now. I always try as you know to be thoroughly honest, and I so admire you trying the same with me, though I understand you sometimes have difficulty with it when you're feeling particularly anxious._

_I love you. Neville, I love you. I love the time you spend here, and I so look forward to your visits. You've made these past few years transformative and healing for me. In the darkest parts of the war, I tried to imagine myself years later, happy, and what I would be doing. I didn't know then I loved you, but I imagined working in the garden with a friend or lover, or walking down Diagon Alley hand in hand, or eating a picnic by my river. And now you're doing those things with me. And I've realized I've fulfilled those fantasies, and I've fulfilled them with you._

_You know I don't have boyfriends. I don't date. But I want to be with you. I know you'll be scared by "forever", but that's what I mean. I want you to come live with me here, until we decide what to do with ourselves. Think of it – think how much happier you might be with the sun on your face and the countryside at hand. You'll love it, as I love you._

_I'm looking forward to your reply. _

_Love,_

_Luna_

Neville pressed his palms to his eyelids, trying to fight back a slowly rising sense of panic. He wouldn't lie to her. But he didn't reciprocate her feelings. And he didn't know what to do.

He climbed back into bed.

All night he imagined various scenarios. He imagined Apparating to Luna's house without notice, asking to talk with her and leading her to the garden, telling her he didn't love her back, but that he wanted to stay friends. No good – he could see her crying, or worse yet, rejoining him in that painfully serene voice that meant she was hiding heartache, "That's all right, Neville. I understand."

He could send her a letter back, asking to speak in person, asking her to come to his flat so she could see the depths of his despondency, and here he would tell her. Then, maybe, she would take it more easily, seeing a physical manifestation of his lethargy. But no. If he sent her a cryptic note, asking her to talk, wouldn't she see it as a pending acceptance and reciprocation of her sentiments? He couldn't.

That left a response letter. He could do that. Thank her – _no, don't thank her, don't condescend_ – express firmly but with empathy his lack of romantic feelings toward her, and urge their continued friendship. That's what he'd have to do. School-age Neville would have had no idea how to proceed. But – and here Neville scrambled for his journal, for he was attempting to record healthy thoughts as he had them – adult Neville was much better at identifying his feelings and communicating them thoughtfully.

But what would friendship look like, now? He had no idea. How did one continue on post-rejection? Surely their days of eating ice cream at Fortescue and Sons were past. Even long weekend evenings at her home would surely end, at least for a while. Luna was terribly strong, he knew, but he didn't trust himself, his awkward self-consciousness, to be around her, knowing what she had said.

Dawn crept inside his flat, and still he felt sick. He padded into his cramped kitchen, because his bedroom had no windows and was horribly dark, found a piece of parchment, and began to write.

_Dear Luna,_

_Thank you for your letter. I'd love to help with your bookshelves – _

No. He had to get straight to the point. He siphoned off the sentence with his wand and tried again.

_Thank you for your letter. I can't think of any way but to be blunt: I don't return your feelings._

Damn. No. He wanted to be straightforward, but surely that level of directness bordered on cruel? He siphoned the ink and began again. And again. It took over an hour, but finally he'd produced a brief missive he felt he could send.

_Dear Luna,_

_I want you to know how much your letter meant to me. Your presence in my life has made me happier than you can know. Truly – your letters bring so much hope to my life, and my happiest afternoons are those I spend with you. _

_I love you like a sister, Luna, but I can't offer you more than that. You're my best friend, but I can't think of you as my lover. _

_I want to keep you in my life, but I'm not sure how. I don't think I can come to your house again, at least for a little while._

_I hope you can understand._

_Love,_

_Neville_

He stopped writing. He looked at the page. _Wait an hour. Then re-read. _He made himself a cup of tea and drank it too hot, the tea scalding his throat. He went outside. It was overcast, with rain dripping from eaves but not falling from the sky. He walked around the block three times. He went back to his flat, took a deep breath, and reread his letter.

_That's the best I can do._

He Apparated from inside his apartment to the nearest wizard post office. He'd considered acquiring an owl – he certainly had enough business correspondence to justify it – but he was worried about taking care of it. What if he neglected to feed it?

He posted the letter quickly, before he could change his mind. He stepped out of the shop, ducked into an alley, turned on the spot, and Disapparated back to his apartment.

Then he sat down on the bed and began to cry.

* * *

_Thanks for reading and leaving your thoughts! I've never been particularly satisfied with the movies' resolution of Neville's love life (Luna), and certainly not with the Pottermore assignation of Neville to Hannah Abbott. I hope this piece reflected my Neville/Luna ambivalence - I think they could work as a couple, but only with a lot of trial, tribulation, and hand-wringing along the way! This is a oneshot, but other Neville and Neville/Luna fics are percolating in my mind after writing this!_


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